


Twinges When It's About To Rain

by Biromantic_Nerd



Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: (catalina flores), Bad Things Happen Bingo, Cry Into Chest, Don't Post To Another Site, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Romance, One Shot, this is not a secret trauma reveal fic; Dick gets to keep his trauma a secret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biromantic_Nerd/pseuds/Biromantic_Nerd
Summary: Today, just as it has always been in these years of doing this, he enters the room and approaches the couch. Bruce glances over the novel in his hands and then resumes reading, now with a small smile. Dick climbs onto the couch with years of practice, snuggles close to Bruce in a way that isn't possible outside this parlor room, outside of this couch so beloved to Bruce first and now beloved to Dick as well. A family heirloom of emotional attachment.(Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt 6: "Cry Into Chest" + "Dick Grayson w/Bruce Wayne")
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186613
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64





	Twinges When It's About To Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TokiNoKusabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokiNoKusabi/gifts).



> title: quote by Robert Goolrick
> 
> warnings:  
> • implied past canon sexual assault/rape but nothing graphic or specific is described. Just referenced, seeing as Dick is the POV and his dislike of rain has some diction with the word connotation referencing this.  
> • Also - and this is very important to me - Dick never discloses his trauma in this fic. I've seen a lot of stories where he gets the comfort he deserves, but I haven't seen one yet where he receives that comfort while still retaining the agency of choosing _not_ to discuss his trauma at all. So he does not "reveal" what happened to him and no one finds out. 
> 
> dedicated to: TokiNoKusabi who requested "Cry Into Chest" + "Dick Grayson w/Bruce Wayne" (Sorry there's so little of the actual crying??)

Winter weather like this contrarily makes him think of the summertime. And how in Gotham July always turns the world into an unpleasant torrent of hot sticky rain.

Humidity, ugh. But even that's not as bad as the intense sunshine _while_ it rains. In his childhood Dick had traveled to many places, had seen all sorts of climates and weather before he'd become Bruce's ward. Nothing is like Gotham though. The sun is brighter than anything and there's so much of it - roughly over ten hours a day of sunlight during the summer. Somehow that is unchanged by the facts like when the calendar marks the fourteenth day straight of rain. _Two weeks_ of continuous rain met with continuous sunshine. It's enough to make people long for either a normal summer rainless day or a normal rainy summerless day. 

It's nothing new; he's grown up in this weather - it comes every July - but _ugh_. Tim once likened it to Texas and Dick had _laughed_ at the affronted look on Bruce's face upon hearing the comparison.

"In Texas," Dick had stage whispered to Jason, "Things are bigger. But in Gotham? They're _batter_." The joke had left his brother unimpressed but still shaking his head in reluctant amusement, had caused Bruce's mouth to twitch despite his earlier disapproval. Wasn't even his best quip either. Easy crowd, his favorite kind. 

And the way Dick sees it is this: Bruce, Tim, Jason, Barbara - they're all Gotham natives. So it's understandable that they don't comprehend how wrong it is to be able to see the sun while bleary rain clouds are in the air dropping rain that falls down warm. _Warm!_ It's not meant to be that way. Rain is supposed to be cold, like how the Gotham weather is in December. Except, October through December are typically cold enough that most of the rainfall that happens comes down as hail or snow - so really there aren't a lot of days where the rain comes down properly. Wet and cold and not sunny. Like real rain should, Dick's always said.

Damian doesn't agree with him on this, per se, but he also doesn't _disagree_. So that counts as a win in Dick's book.

Blüdhaven has the occasional day in the summer when the rain falls hot and bathes everything below in its sweat. Occasional being the key word, unlike Gotham where it is the norm in July. 

It's winter; early enough in December that Bruce hasn't yet celebrated Hanukkah. It's the first rainfall of winter. It makes him think of the misery of summer rain. Hot and gross and miserable. 

It's chilly now. Because it isn't July so when it rains it _actually_ rains. The chill is just verging on cold enough to make his breath frost, yet not cold enough for the rain to turn to ice as it falls. It takes longer to permeate than summer's miserable heat that causes his skin to crawl; takes longer to realize that it's affecting him. 

The chill is hard to shake. Makes him tremble even inside the Batcave once patrol is done, tremble worse as he unzips his suit. He lingers in one of the cave's shower - basks in the warmth and how when he sighs his exhale displaces the water's steam instead of frosting - well after the others have already dressed and are on their way to leaving. His fingers vigorously scrub the fuzzy pins and needles feeling away from his goosebump laden skin.

He quickly turns off the water when he overhears Tim's tattling voice say, "Dick's hiding an injury."

"Oh?" Alfred asks, supremely unimpressed by this. "Well in that case, you and Master Damian run upstairs. I'll sort out Master Dick."

"An injury?" Damian asks. Dick can almost picture his cute look of confusion.

"I'm fine," Dick assures him and it's an entire twenty seconds later that Damian believes him enough to ascend up the stairs after Tim.

"Master Dick?" Alfred asks. "Do come out rather sooner than later. You're only delaying the inevitable."

Alfred. Alfred is safe. Always has been, always will be. In the hot rain of summertime, Alfred is a pitcher of homemade lemonade paired with the colorful straws that loop de loop; in the cold rain of winter, Alfred is a kettle whistling on the stove while Dick contemplates which flavor tea he wants today and Alfred has already laid out the tea set upon the tray. Comfort, safety, soothing. If Dick isn't thirsty, Alfred won't pressure him into having a beverage. Seasons may change, Alfred does not. 

"D'aww," Dick answers in a chipper voice that echoes hollowly through his chest but assuages Alfred's potential worry. He doesn't want him to worry, especially when nothing is wrong. Feigns that he's now caught out and chagrined. It's easy to do. Not so much even a facade but a part of himself now that he's honed like any of his other skills. He doesn't have a plan yet on how to get out of this. Seeing as that he doesn't actually have an injury. "All right, fine, you got me." He towels off quickly. He steps outside of the shower and grabs at his fluffy terry cloth robe hanging outside the shower door on a hook. Moves out from the showering area to where Alfred is waiting while tying the thin sash around his waist as he walks.

With deliberateness Alfred sends a disapproving look to his bare feet upon the cold stone ground - Dick wiggles his toes - but merely sighs and does not berate him for it.

He's lucky. When he allows Alfred to pry open the lapels in search of his mysterious hidden injury. Which, to Dick's own astonishment, he _actually has_. See? Lucky him. The chill of the rain had numbed him enough earlier that he just must have not felt it. Another reason why December rain is so much better than July rain. Even in the impenetrability of the Batcave, the rain is audible. 

Though the disappointed noise that leaves Alfred's mouth upon seeing it is almost worse somehow than had there not been anything at all.

"I didn't think it was a big deal. In fact," He continues in complete honestly, "I didn't even feel it." 

"Save me from the bravado of young men," Alfred replies. His hands on Dick's upper trapezius muscle are soft and warm. Familiar and safe. Even with the sting of disinfectant Alfred applies, the ministrations are something Dick is accustomed to. The tension melts away from his shoulders, even as Alfred lowers the robes off his shoulders to dutifully check the rest of the upper, the middle, and the lower trapezius muscle that lies on his back for further injury. Alfred lets out a quiet hum as he finds the skin unharmed - usually the casing of his escrima sticks do provide some protection there and rarely let minor injuries like this one slip through; it makes sense that whatever had caught him had landed on his front side then and not the back as well where his escrima sticks and straps go. He settles the robe back onto Dick with a satisfied nod. "Get dressed," Alfred orders sternly. "The air is far too cold to be lounging about without protection." And then his face softens. "Shall I put on the kettle for tea or would you rather I make some hot chocolate?"

It warms him even now just at the mention of it. "Yeah, thanks. Hot chocolate sounds _sublime_." 

Fondly Alfred shakes his head at his dramatics. But it's true. Hot chocolate sounds like the best thing right now that's possible. 

"Hot chocolate it is," Alfred agrees and goes to climb the stairs out of the cave and back up into the main level of the manor to prepare exactly that. 

A droplet of water travels down the side of his jaw, falls on his clavicle. He shivers. Hot chocolate truly does sound divine. He doesn't waste any more time in getting dressed, eager to head towards the kitchen.

* * *

When Alfred leaves for upstairs with a tray of mugs for Tim and Damian, Dick takes his own half full mug elsewhere.

The rain outside beats a heavy drum. He idly wonders why it isn't snow. It certainly feels cold enough to him for that to be possible. Why rain then? But at least it was a proper cold rain, not a sweat sticky mess of misery during the summer humidity that he does his very best to avoid contact with. Just... normal rain. As it ought to be. Cold enough to turn his lips a blue tinge.

When he passes one of the downstairs parlors, he peers in the doorway checking. Smiles when he indeed spots Bruce on the couch he always tends to lounge on when he's reading; sometimes he'll carry _stacks_ of books from one of the upstairs libraries down to this room and the tall tower of tomes on the side table is a frequent sight. So it's not really an unusual guess that he'd be here - odds were on his side to start with. Walking into the room feels like an overlapping image from a film, overlaid footage that repeats on loop in a cinematic softness.

Once when Dick was a kid, he had asked Bruce plainly why he didn't just bring the couch upstairs if he liked it that much. To the best of his somewhat limited ability, Bruce had explained to him that it wasn't the couch that made him come back again and again. It was the room; the couch was merely the most comfortable place to be in it. This room - it was one of his favorites. When Dick had asked why, Bruce had just smiled. As a kid Dick had spent many hours on that couch, cuddled into Bruce's side imagining reasons why this room would be Bruce's favorite. Maybe it is the fireplace - there's so many in the manor but this one is made up of a black marble. Maybe it's the bronze bust of Bruce's grandfather that's on one of the tall mahogany wood bookshelves. Or perhaps the floors beneath that sometimes Dick had traced its basketweave pattern with his finger, moving from the oak wood to the glossy tile trim border in fascinated repetition. He never voiced any of his guesses. Even as an adult he sometimes plays this game.

Probably because he's spent all these years again and again coming to this room because he knows Bruce might be there. And because Bruce always has welcomed him at his side. Though Bruce is not one to often initiate physical contact, this room is a place Dick has always felt comfortable in partaking in such. While here in this parlor and on this couch, Bruce has always let him cozy up to his side in a gesture that is just adjacent of hugging. Smiles at it even. Whether happy or upset, Dick has always welcomed this touch and has reveled in its comfort. 

Today, just as it has always been in these years of doing this, he enters the room and approaches the couch. Bruce glances over the novel in his hands and then resumes reading, now with a small smile. Dick climbs onto the couch with years of practice, snuggles close to Bruce in a way that isn't possible outside this parlor room, outside of this couch so beloved to Bruce first and now beloved to Dick as well. A family heirloom of emotional attachment.

Focused on reading - or needing to maintain the illusion of thus - Bruce doesn't look up but he shifts subtly to further accommodate Dick using his chest as a pillow while Dick tightens his grip on his mug of hot chocolate and is careful not to spill the half that remains in it. The softness of Bruce's turtleneck against his skin is soothing. The perfect place to take another sip of hot chocolate.

The familiarity of it makes the touch feel like it's been suspended in time. He could be eight years old, eighteen years old, or eighty years old. Each year is the same cashmere softness, the solid warmth of Bruce's presence underneath that supple material never changing even as time moves. This moment here is still - can be revisited again and again and always leaves only the barest details altered - the scent of wood in the fireplace or none at all, the different cologne Bruce is wearing or the absence of it, the position in which he needs to extend or scrunch depending on his age and how long his limbs are in order to rest in his preferred spot of Bruce's shoulder but just close enough to his chest that his heartbeat drowns out the rest of his worries.

It is a sound unchanging. Bruce's heartbeat is steady underneath his ear. Carrying on in its reliable comfort as Dick uses Bruce as a pillow.

He could be fifty, he could be fifteen. (Maybe not fifteen, that was a rough year.) But the feeling of being ageless and timeless and eternal - it is grounding. It makes him feel entirely _human_ again. Shouldn't that be contradictory? To revel in the triumph over time itself, beaten not out of violence but of tenderness, but still feel so mortal while experiencing this? Time just doesn't feel linear when he's here. It circles instead, back to soft turtlenecks and steady heartbeats, yes, always back to him and Bruce here and now forever in the past and future both but neither.

When Bruce turns the page in his book with his left hand oh so mindful of not disturbing Dick while doing so, Dick isn't anything at all besides a child cherished.

"What's wrong?" Bruce's voice is hushed gentle. Maybe he too thinks this quiet state of being outside of time is something that can be shattered if one is too loud. Or, Dick realizes when Bruce sets his book aside and uses his calloused fingers to wipe away his tears, maybe Dick was too deep in his own thoughts, too estranged from linear time to even realize that he'd been crying. Some of that quiet in Bruce's voice - oh it's _worry_.

"Nothing," Dick answers. Talking breaks the spell but still he stays put. Chases the last of the timelessness and humanity until it inevitably guides him back to the present, to himself in this moment.

His answer does not quell Bruce's concern. "Nothing?" He asks but by asking already sounds as if he knows this will be a fruitless path to continue down. Their family has a stubborn streak - and a martyr streak - more than a city wide. Gotham to Blüdhaven to past Central even. But Bruce doesn't pry. In this room his desire for information always wages war with his avoidance of discussing emotions - but here is a sanctuary where he always concedes to being Bruce the man and father rather than Bruce the detective and Batman.

But also that he might consider dropping the topic won't be due to him respecting Dick's privacy - boy, now that's a laugh - but rather a case of him not wanting to get stuck _talking about feelings._ Dick is fairly sure that's what Bruce sees when doused under nightmare gas: discussions of emotion. 

"I'm just..." How to explain? The wordless sadness being buoyed by Bruce's presence. "Glad to be home."

The words are enough to puzzle Bruce into discerning their meaning, quietly pondering upon them. He could ask about them. Doesn't. Which Dick is tremendously thankful for; this is one of the times he too doesn't want to talk about it. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate and lingers with the mug cradles to his face, letting the small geyser of steam warm him up and ineffectually disguise his tears. He drinks the final sip and lowers the mug.

"Well," Bruce says at last, voice still soft enough that it would not spook away a dear in a forest of hunters, "I'm glad you're home." And he brushes away the tears still trailing down Dick's eyes once more and then picks his book back off the arm of the couch. Resumes reading. Every so often pausing to put it down again, carefully wiping away any tears that fallen, and then resuming reading again. The pretense of his novel superseding his attention given to Dick thoroughly is left behind with disregard more and more each time he does this. 

It's enough to simply be. No further questions. Only comfort.

Softly his shoulders shake weeping silently into the stability of Bruce's wide torso. With a gentle touch, Bruce gently pries the mug from Dick's hands and reaches over with a slow stretch to place it next to his stack of books on the side table.

The rain hits shingled roof and stained glass windows but it's all buried underneath the loudness of belonging in the comfort of a loved one.

Dick trembles, trembles, is held cautiously and securely enough as he falls apart that he does not dislodge or lose any stray pieces of himself. 

It's not long before Alfred arrives with two mugs of hot chocolate. A soft fondness sparkles in his eyes as he knowingly passes the first mug to Dick and the second mug to Bruce, who accepts the beverage even though he's a staunch believer in not consuming hot chocolate in preference to hot cocoa which he claims is something entirely different.

The whipped cream that kisses Dick's nose upon his first sip is almost as soft as a cashmere turtleneck.

**Author's Note:**

> Based the weather patterns off of Jersey, since sometimes that's about where canon has Gotham. 
> 
> BTW I actually had a chapter 2 to this but felt it didn't match the tone, and so I shifted to rework it into my draft I have for the "panic attack" BTHB prompt I'm working on. So that fic when it's finished will be able to either be read as a one shot standalone OR as a sequel to this one! (I might link them as its own little sub-series with the BTHB series) And that fic will also have a bonus of the "Cry Into Chest" trope with the same Dick w/Bruce setup because I had originally written that (short) scene for this fic but now it's going into that one.


End file.
